


a face from a photograph and the sound of the rain

by orbitalknight



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Depression, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Post-Canon, Spoilers, Torna: The Golden Country DLC, major spoilers for the end of TTGC, real sadboy hours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 00:30:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16587257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orbitalknight/pseuds/orbitalknight
Summary: "Lay this unto your breast:old friends, like old swords,are still trusted best."





	a face from a photograph and the sound of the rain

Rain was falling on the Leftherian Archipelago. 

It falls in full drops that sags the leaves of the island trees and drives even the resident monsters into hiding. Quadwings huddle under the widest branches of the island trees and Camills could be seen bunched up together, long necks rubbing against one another. The rain falls without any sort of partiality upon the Cloud Sea, and the Spirit Crucible, and every little port along the Archipelago. It falls upon what could almost be called a village out in the Fonsett waters, though almost a village was an overstatement. There was not even enough population in the five or so huts and cabins to make a hamlet, let alone a full village. 

The rain fell on Jin, too, but the Blade seemed unbothered. His boots barely left tracks on the soggy sand of the beach just below the hill that led up into the not-a-village of Fonsett proper. He looks above, sees light in the windows of the homes, and makes his way up the only obvious path. There are no steps, just a ribbon of exceedingly soggy dirt. It would have been a difficult task to ascend it for anyone that wasn’t Jin, in all likelihood. As he steps, the ground freezes beneath his boots, so he able to gain considerably more traction. The rain, uncaring, washes away these little floes of ice as quickly as they appear.

There is one dwelling in particular that catches Jin’s eye. The building itself seems to keep its distance from the rest. It is a modest little log cabin, smoke rising in tenacious puffs from the chimney. Two windows symmetrically flank a door made of a lighter wood, and the windows have the curtains pulled back despite the rain. The curtains are a jaunty and somehow familiar shade of yellow. There is no particular signage that gave an indication of who dwells there, but something in Jin’s chest stirs at the sight. This was the destination he’d braved the rain for. 

Jin does not knock, but the door isn’t locked, either. The rain and wind are louder than the Blade’s entrance. Inside, there is a kitchen as modest as the cabin, and a little wooden table with a single chair pulled up, though two more are pushed up against a nearby wall. A worn rug, yellow as well, matches the curtains. A set of stairs leads into what is likely a bedroom on the second floor. Next to the door is a wooden bucket, one that could be used for any number of things given the chance. This one, however, is being used exclusively for holding three swords. Dust graces the hilts of all three blades. It smells of wet wood, not unpleasantly, and spices, and clay. The door slams behind Jin, and he can hear something. Humming, from the kitchen. A man stands there, so absorbed in whatever task he is going about at the sink that he has not noticed his visitor. Or perhaps he has, and simply not deigned to acknowledge the company. 

Long, silvery-gray hair hangs down the man’s back, tied in a low ponytail. He is wearing a brown hooded robe, even indoors, perhaps because his dwelling provides insufficient insulation. The hood is down, so Jin can see the top of the man’s head, too. The silver hair sticks up as if it had been recently slept on, which more than confirms Jin’s suspicions about the man himself. As if realizing this, the man turns around. His golden eyes are unmistakable, even for the wrinkles that crease their corners now. Down the right side of his face hangs a long lock of silver hair, wrapped near the end with red fabric. The rest of the man’s hair is just as messy from the front as it was from behind. He smiles, and it looks like a person slipping into a pair of well-worn boots after years without use. The creases are there, but they have faded. The expression, it seems, it is not as often counted upon as it once was. Even if the man is the same, the smile suits him.  

“Well,” says Addam Origo, “I can’t say I was expecting company tonight.”

Jin is silent. The rain falls ever harder than before. It pounds against the windows, but the yellow curtains remain unperturbed. 

“You’ll have to excuse me,” Addam says, motioning to the kitchen. “I’m just finishing up here. Please, take a seat.” 

Jin is almost tempted to lean over Addam’s shoulder, see what the prince is cooking or attempting to. But he isn’t tempted enough and moves one of the chairs by the wall over to the table. There’s no point in calling Addam a prince anymore, either, but seeing the man has brought up old habits and memories alike. Jin’s gaze drifts back to the bucket of swords. Their placement suggests that at some point Addam may have been rather used to company, especially of the unexpected kind, but the dust tells its own tale.

Addam pulls out the chair already at the table with his foot, hands full with two steaming plates. There is fish on them, in all likelihood something pulled out of the Leftherian waters. “I was planning to save the extras, you know. But what kind of host would that make me?” Addam half-laughs, but something about it rings out hollow. 

Jin has no intention of eating, really. He’s here for two purposes, though only one is non-negotiable. He isn’t here to talk, either, so the Blade continues his scan of the house. There’s a bookshelf against the wall opposite the staircase. Nearby is a stool and in front of it something Jin halfway recognizes as a pottery wheel. There are shelves in the corner, too, projects finished and unfinished crowding the space. On an upturned crate by the pottery wheel is a likeness of a human head. Something about it makes Jin feel as though he knows the face. 

Addam has been eating but nonetheless follows Jin’s gaze. Something unreadable creases his brow. “Ah. I do need to get around to finishing that one.”

At last, Jin breaks his own silence, like a sheet of ice cracking on a deep blue lake. Something dangerous. “What is it?”

Addam sets down his silverware. “Well, it was going to be a gift for the fine nation of Mor Ardain. A bust of their... Late Emperor.” 

Jin can’t help but notice the way Addam looks at his hands, then, as if he is seeing the crumpled form of Hugo Ardanach there again. The memory for Addam is like a song so often played that each note is carved into his bones. Jin knows the sensation intimately. He carries a scar to prove it. 

A tremor creeps into Addam’s hands, and his voice as well. “Did you go?” the man takes an equally shaky breath, “To Hugo’s funeral?”

Jin offers silence as an answer. He wonders why Addam is asking. Jin is aware of his own conspicuousness in any crowd, mask on or off. 

“I’d have no reason to ask, you see, if I’d been there myself.” Addam says, at once a confession and an explanation, “After all the trouble they went through to send me an invitation, too. I could hardly bring myself to crack the seal on it.” 

Jin has no reason not to let Addam talk. There is a chance, even, that this rambling will get him to one of his two goals, and he needs to complete the first before he can truly commit to the second. He is bracing himself, though, for when Addam will ask the obvious question. He is a little surprised it hasn’t come up yet. The Leftherian fish on Jin’s plate has gone cold.

Addam, for his part, has given up on the second half of his meal. The smile from before has strayed off his face. He is still looking at the unfinished bust by the pottery wheel, and absentmindedly pushes the plate to the side. A calloused finger finds a knot on the surface of the wooden table and traces the circle once, twice. “Have you come to kill me, then, Jin?”

Jin is an ice Blade, but something in the offhanded nature of the question and the use of his name sends a chill down his spine all the same. At last, he solves the puzzle of the dust on the swords. It was never the case that company stopped coming. Jin was not expected tonight in particular, but he was nonetheless expected. He feels that he owes Addam the truth. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Addam nods, glad to have cleared that up. The thought is shelved for now. “It’s a shame that you’re here during the rainy season, you know. When it’s sunny, well... It looks almost like Torna.” For a second, Jin swears he can see tears clouding those golden eyes. But Addam blinks whatever was there away just as quickly. 

Jin isn’t particularly interested in hearing that point elaborated. He has no reason to doubt Addam on the matter. He considers for a moment an inquiry that delayed his travel to Leftheria and decides he can spare the time for one irrelevant but possibly useful question. “Is that why you’re here rather than in Tantal?”

Addam frowns. “Tantal?”

“There are Tornans there living under your name.”

“Ah,” Addam half-smiles, ruefully. “A bit ironic, that.” 

“How do you mean?”

“They may be living under my name, but Zettar is the one ruling them. I had heard there were Tornans in Tantal, though I’ve no plans to join them.”

Jin had gone to Tantal, but he hadn’t realized the nature of Zettar’s involvement. It figured, nonetheless. He considers the obvious question yet again. He also considers taking off his mask, just to expedite the process. Addam cannot be ignorant, not given the information he has on Tantal. Addam has made it clear that he knows Torna is dead, and he knows where it died. It is no stretch of the imagination to assume he also knows Jin was there. And still, the question remains unasked. It hangs there like a fog even though the rain has yet to stop. 

“Well, Jin,” Addam leans both elbows on the table, “If you haven’t decided yet about killing me, what does bring you all the way to Leftheria?”

“Information,” Says Jin, “About the Aegis.”

Addam lifts one silver eyebrow. “You’re not the first.” The man’s gaze drifts to the bucket of swords. “In all likelihood, you know more than the man who was. There’s very little else to say, I’m afraid.”

“I see,” Jin had entertained some small hope that whatever remnant of friendship remained between the two of them would be enough to persuade Addam into more readily supplying the information he came for. But the man’s presence here in the smattering of huts too small to be village is information in its own right, and it will have to be enough. 

The fog settles at last upon Addam’s shoulders. “I suppose I have a question of my own, then, while you’re here.” He takes a long, slow breath. “What happened...  in Spessia?”

Jin has been waiting but he still does not know how to answer. He clenches and unclenches one fist. His chest is at once incredibly full and terribly hollow. 

Addam is still talking. “I’ve only heard partial accounts, you see. I do take full responsibility for all that happened there.”

Jin can hear the rain tapping against the windows, he can see Addam’s hands start to shake again, but he is no longer in Leftheria he is in Spessia and Lora is in his arms growing ever colder and the words of the journal that belonged to someone who was him but also wasn’t ring out in his head as she speaks her final apology. All is cold yet it is burning as he thinks of the Tornan titan wailing as it falls into the clouds but here is where the golden country died, here, with him. Lora is there in the hollow of his chest but Torna is dead and Addam is not the one who killed it but he was the one who sent them to the funeral and the man knows this. Jin can see it in the golden eyes, guilt that outweighs a thousand Aegises, and he reaches a decision at last. 

“I’m not going to kill you,” Jin says. He takes off his mask, slowly. It has been a while. 

Addam notes in equal measure the words and the red core crystal. The wrinkles around his eyes seem to deepen in the flickering firelight. “I cannot ask your forgiveness. I read the list of the deceased.” 

“You still knew that I would be here.” Jin doesn’t phrase it like a question, but he has been wondering.

Addam rubs the back of his neck with one hand, the ghost of a habit. “Nuncle, er, Azurda, told me had seen you. He said you wouldn’t be all too pleased to find he had.”

Jin was not pleased in the slightest, but he’d also promised the old Titan they would never meet again. No point in dwelling on it, especially when that means Addam most likely doesn’t have the rest of the picture to consider. “Is that when you stopped using them? Your swords.”

One of the ways that Jin had tracked Addam down was through the other name given to Fonsett village. The silhouettes of rumors that had heard of the man’s presence called the place “Hero’s Rest.” Addam does not look rested in the slightest. Whatever lightness he had feigned at Jin’s arrival has dissipated. His eyes no longer sparkle like freshly polished gold coins, the rust has set in and he is tired. 

“No,” Addam says, his voice a low rumble against the rain, “It was long before that.”

Jin doesn’t need to ask how long ago. It’s possible, even, that the swords were only ever there for show. The Blade and the man are similar enough, maybe even too similar. Jin, at least, has a goal to look forward to. Addam has naught but a lonely dwelling in a place that looks like home but never will be, and too grand of a reputation to ever leave. 

“Well, Jin,” Addam squeezes a smile out whatever reserves he has remaining, “You’re welcome to stay the night, should you like to.”

The offer is almost tempting, but pity stills the affirmative on Jin’s tongue. He replaces his mask and stands, giving one last look to the unfinished bust, the yellow curtains, the kitchen and fireplace. He silently says his goodbyes to them. He will be back when all this and the man that brought them together is gone. The Spirit Crucible will wait for him. Jin has all the time he could want, if he had, in fact, wanted it. 

“Goodnight, Addam.” The Blade speaks this farewell aloud.

“Goodnight, Jin,” In Addam’s face can be read a memory of gentleness, a prince once more. “Best of luck to you.”

Jin departs as silently as he arrived, leaving the man alone at the table. 

Rain was falling on the Leftherian Archipelago. 

**Author's Note:**

> hey everyone! it's ya boy back with some real sad shit 
> 
> this is the depression fic i've wanted to get out of my system since i first played the ending of ttgc 
> 
> also i have no clue how to write jin so i hope i did alright!
> 
> to carry a crown will be updating once i write a quick fluffy palette cleanser xbc1 fic, because i am not strong enough to make the jump from this to that right away and you all deserve a warm last chapter of that...
> 
> as always, thank you for reading!


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